


the struggles of art school

by minorseventh



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Art School, M/M, Misunderstandings, Modeling, artist!Victor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 12:30:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11532264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minorseventh/pseuds/minorseventh
Summary: For all it’s worth, being an art student is pretty monotone. Today is no different. Victor goes to his usual chair and sets up his materials. By now, it’s methodical: he pulls out an assortment of dull graphite pencils and his various sketchpads, puts them on the table, and slides his knapsack neatly underneath. Voila, ready to go.He’s contemplating the closest place to get a white chocolate cappuccino when the door suddenly bursts open, and perhaps the most gorgeous person Victor has ever seen in his life walks into the room.It occurs to Victor that taking the nude sketching course was not that bad of an idea after all.





	the struggles of art school

You’d think an art student’s favorite assignment would be the monthly nude sketching, but no. Half the time the models are just cheapskates looking for money, and Victor is done with drawing random old people who could care less about decency. Half the time he just resorts to drawing the subject’s hands, or side head profile, even at Professor Yakov’s insistence to capture the entire figure in art and spirit.

Screw it, really: in Victor’s opinion, the artist who can tell a story in the ink lines of someone’s feet is much more impressive than the one who can create a carbon copy of their photograph.

Next to him, Christophe sighs. “There are so many gorgeous people on campus here,” he laments. “Why doesn’t, like, Isabella come in and pose for us? All we get are Yakov’s old neighbors. People always say you can find beauty in every picture, but like… hell, I’d strip right now!”

“Maybe later,” Victor laughs. He takes out a 7B pencil to outline his rough sketch.

It really doesn’t matter anyways. Yakov is a traditionalist: he wants the entire art department to work on the basics of what he calls classical art, even the modernists and graphic designers. That entails caution when it comes to graphite smudges and eraser technique while still life sketching, and basic blending when it comes to mixing oil paint colors. People acknowledge that his pupils are extraordinarily talented, if a little bland when creating an identical copy of Michael Sweerts’s _Head of a Woman_ or even Monet’s water lilies, but there is no question that Yakov is an old-school style teacher. He gives out mandatory assignments, but ultimately few of the artists care about them, and prefer to work on their own cubism or whatever.

Still, Victor tries to make the most out of every oeuvre he creates. He wants to take the mundane tasks and transform them into unexpected pieces of insight. He wants to surprise the viewer, to make them see the pain in the worn shoulderblades he’s adding layers to, to make them feel the wisdom in the deep-set pair of eyes he traced last week. Or he wants to use the irony of architecture, to make a bold statement with pastel colors, to make an innate texture in empty space. When Professor Baranovskaya instructs how to make a Degas copper ballerina, he adds a Rodin-inspired lifelikeness. It’s all about having a unique stamp on what you mold between your fingertips, after all.

That’s why he chose to study primarily with Professor Yakov. Although Yakov represented the classical viewpoint on the best art, Victor believed he could always somehow bring himself to tell a new story with each new page.

He looks up at the model, tries to export the depth of a lifetime of hard work onto his sketchbook, tries to show the faded beauty of wrinkled skin on a two-dimensional plane. He’s smudging over a constellation of freckles when someone steps in front of his line of sight.

Professor Yakov.

He doesn’t look too happy, but then again, he never does. Next to him, Christophe gives an apologetic shrug for not being able to signal a warning beforehand.

“Vitya,” Yakov groans. “How many times do I have to tell you to recreate the entire figure? Every single time you do the same thing: you draw just the face, or just the wrists, or just the legs. I want to see some personality in your work. I want to see _humanity_.”

“But Yakov, what I draw is the very epitome of each model’s humanity,” Victor says. “I chose the wrists because they were knife scars healed over. I chose that one girl’s legs because the way she sat exuded a certain degree of body image confidence. There are stories in what I choose.”

“What greater story can you find than in a person’s entire form, especially in nudity?”

“Well, a pianist’s hands symbolize their achievements, so sometimes focusing on that might lend greater perspective. I guess I might draw an entire body if I see it fitting, say a dancer or a figure skater, maybe. They have to use their entire body to compose art as part of their musicality and sport. But here I think you can invest more time in drawing a story based on a fraction of each model’s body.”

“I suppose so,” Yakov finally admits. (He always does, in the end, despite his groans and objections.) “I do see what you mean. It can be said that you, Vitya, are characterized by your long hair. Maybe it works, but I also want you to try some full body sketches, especially with the opportunities I give you. And when you draw bones through skin, try to make the shadows more subtle so it comes across more realistically.”

The next day, Victor cuts all of his long hair off, just for the sake of it.

(Seung-gil turns out to be a very good impromptu hairdresser, even if he’s the world’s Most Extra Drama Queen Roommate sometimes.)

\--

For one the final portfolio pieces, each student has to create one work that features a human head. It can be a clay bust, a simple acrylic painting, or a comic book collage, whatever. Victor is planning to make a pair of silhouettes set to “Eros” and “Agape”—two songs that came up randomly in his playlist one day which he inexplicably fell in love with. At first, he tried to simply pick one soundtrack to inspire one painting, but he knew he had to create something out of the pair of songs after they wouldn’t stop intertwining in his head.

His premature design almost resembles two playing cards, as if Eros is set in a field of roses and Agape in a sea of lilies. The two figures will face each other, as if an indecisive mirror image, contrasting the patterns of the background. And within the silhouettes, a fiery heart of passion, and a fragile heart of glass, for Eros and Agape respectively. It’ll be a meeting of symbols and beauty.

The only problem is that Victor needs models to base his two characters off of.

Christophe suggests two self-portraits, before and after the haircut, ideally with long hair representing the naïve, innocent, unconditional love, and the short hair standing for a whole new aura of appeal. It makes sense, but somehow Victor isn’t feeling it.

Michele Crispino proposes a pair of lovers, and offers to model the silhouettes with his sister. In that order. Victor respectfully declines.

Georgi tries to explain the value of using an unrecognizable universal head blob to represent a desire across all of humanity—keyword _tries_ because everybody somehow turns deaf when his sermons begin.

Victor keeps searching.

\--

This month’s model is none other than Phichit Chulanont, well-known throughout campus for organizing several successful awareness campaigns through his Instagram account. Apparently, he convinced Yakov to let him wear Hawaiian print swim trunks rather than drape a towel across his lap as most other models do. He looks like an Abercrombie model ready to hit the beach (just imagine the photoshoot possibilities given sunglasses and a rainbow parasol!), and everyone has to admit the enthusiasm is infectious. For one of the first times, people are smiling as they sketch.

Phichit is a good model, because he naturally has so much character to give. That’s what it takes: character. Contrary to popular belief, simply having an attractive model pleases only the eyes and not the soul. The persona is what makes the portrait. The artist can then easily infuse some of his personality onto paper. He’s like fireworks in July, or a Broadway premiere’s opening night, the kind of spectacle you can’t just keep to yourself. Victor enjoys drawing him immensely.

The only thing about Phichit is that he won’t sit still. Half the time he’s telling one of what seems to be an infinite arsenal of hilarious stories, and it even makes Yakov crack a smile.

Victor can almost see him as a cartoon character, exuberantly animated and cheerful. He’s bubbly and upbeat, and Victor immediately knows he needs to highlight Phichit’s bright eyes and smile. He takes out reds and golds to accent the monochrome palette, careful to capture the mischievous glint in his model’s eyes, dusts some highlighting powder across his cheekbones. He draws him slightly out of focus, like a camera that’s constantly moving to keep its subject in the frame.

In any case, everyone seems to be enjoying it, and the afternoon is over in a flash.

“Oh my god,” Phichit says, fawning over various sketches of his face. “You guys flatter me! I don’t even look that good _with_ a filter!” He proceeds to give everyone his username handle so they can tag him if they post the drawings online, seemingly blissfully oblivious of the fact that nearly every human being on the planet already followed _phichit+chu_.

“This was so much fun! And next time I’ll drag Yuuri over so you guys can draw him! He is the _cutest_ thing, you wouldn’t believe it. What boyfriend material! I’m seriously so, so lucky to have him with me all the time.”

Victor flashes him a brilliant smile. For the first time, he’s looking forward to the next nude modelling. If Phichit is anything to judge by, his boyfriend should be just as fun to capture in a work of art.

It’s good to have a change of pace every once in a while, you know?

\--

Victor sets to work making _Agape_ , testing out different patterns for the background. He’s got a few ideas in mind. It should be something elaborate but ethereal. He’s thinking different shades of silver and white, somewhere between Rococo and Art Nouveau, a cross between a floral angel and a tiffany lamp. Nothing too overdone, but no blank canvas, either.

He searches up the shapes of lilies and their petals and settles on the gentle trumpet curve of the _longiflorum_ , or Easter Lily. Next, he arranges them: first, he fans the petals out from the center, with a gentle halo dusting effect, decides he doesn’t quite like it, goes for a horizontal motif, and then a vertical one. It keeps things simple, but maintains the elevated grace of a stained glass window. Vertical it is.

For the _Agape_ model, he’ll need someone enthralling, someone devoted to give everything eternally. He’ll need someone with a fragile heart of glass, fully at the mercy of goodwill. And the person would have to have a beautiful, fairylike quality.

He’s got just the person, even if the subject himself might never admit to checking any of those boxes.

Next up: the issue of finding an appropriate _Eros_.

\--

“You could always use me,” Christophe tells Victor as they walk down the hall to Yakov’s teaching studio.

Victor just laughs, pulling open the door. “We both know how well my drawings of you turn out—they end up as scarily distorted caricatures.”

“You bring out the best in me,” Christophe says with a wink as he goes over to say hi to Mila. The two of them will probably end up on another tangent about hairstyling products, and Victor smiles despite himself.

Victor goes to his usual chair and sets up his materials. He has this small side table where he keeps his art supplies. By now, it’s methodical: he pulls out an assortment of dull graphite pencils and his various sketchpads, puts them on the table, and slides his knapsack neatly underneath. Voila, ready to go.

He’s contemplating the closest place to get a white chocolate cappuccino when the door suddenly bursts open, and perhaps the most gorgeous person Victor has ever seen in his life walks into the room.

All talking stops; all eyes turn. The entire art room tries and fails to not hum in approval. The model has a beautiful figure, neither slender nor solid, yet sculpted. He sits down and crosses his legs, letting the fabric of the towel around his waist ride up slightly.

Victor is enchanted by the way the model’s body moves. There’s something in it that feels like he’s composing music with every muscle… something charming… he can’t look away.

And then he looks up, straight at Victor, and even though he immediately looks down, a faint blush crossing his face, a certain admirer has already fallen for him. Hard.

Victor struggles to find the right words to describe him, so he resorts to the medium he knows best.

He works quickly, almost as if in a frenzy, drawing as much of the model as he can without looking away. His sketchpad fills with preliminary sketches of eyes, and hands, and legs, and lips, and several torso busts. Before he knows it, Victor has completed his first full-body portrait since the first nude model showed up in Professor Yakov’s studio. Oh, wouldn’t Yakov be proud.

He hesitates to erase the wild tangles he unconsciously traces into the model’s hair, wonders helplessly if that’s what it would look like if someone keeps him up all night, pulling at the beautiful ebony hair. Being a nude model obviously leaves little to the imagination, but Victor wants to know everything about him, can’t help but fantasize what kinds of music he listens to, what kinds of music he can make…

Before Victor knows it, time is already up and that fluttering feeling in his chest is not going away.

“Hey, um… Vic- Victor?”

Victor looks up, never more turned on by the sound of his own name.

It’s the model. The beautiful, otherworldly, indescribable model, now tucked up in a long-sleeved shirt that highlights his collarbones all too well.

“I, I saw your work in the gallery showing the other day? And I, I was wondering if maybe we could take, like, a photo together? It’s kind of weird to first meet you almost completely naked, but my name’s–”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Victor assures him. “Let’s take a commemorative photo, then, shall we?”

He nods, somewhat bashfully, and runs out of the room the minute the shutter goes off.

By that time, most of the students have started to pack up for dinner. Victor is still caught up in his own thoughts. He realizes belatedly that he still doesn’t know his model’s name. But in a way, he already has a name for him: _Eros_.

\--

“So there’s this _guy_ —”

“Very funny, enough of that,” Christophe says. “We all know what happens when you fall for someone. It’s like two days before you’re back to obsessing over yourself.”

Seung-gil raises his eyebrows. “Sorry, Chris, but I think you’re describing yourself. At least before the boyfriend.”

“No, Victor, don’t listen to him—please do tell! Rom-coms fuel my existence,” Stéphane says, clapping his hands together.

Victor bites his lip, unsure of where to start. “Well, what would you do if you were living a real life Cinderella story?”

The entire table looks up from their phones, casually intrigued.

“You could totally start a wild goose chase professing your love in the Student Center every morning,” Christophe says. “That could inspire, like, a news story or something, and then you’ll surely find the love of your life, _and_ you’ll be famous.”

“I’d just let it happen,” Stéphane says. “You have to follow the music.”

Seung-gil gets a strange look in his eye for a moment, but simply shrugs, and goes back to stalking _phichit+chu_.

Victor had thought assembling his closest friends would lend him some useful advice from all sides of the spectrum, but it appears that he is still all on his own.

Until it hits him. His model Eros is friends with Phichit Chulanont, right? Mr. _phichit+chu_! He can get in touch with Phichit, and then, Phichit can hook him up with—

Wait.

Wait…

Phichit and the model.

Aren’t they boyfriends or something?

\--

He tries not to think about it too much.

He can’t handle a broken glass heart of his own.

He spends hours infusing his paintings with Hopper loneliness and Caravaggio intensity. He creates a series of small self-portraits, upon dreary backgrounds of greys and blues, and flaming sunsets of reds and orange.

He dedicates an entire wall of his room to the one true love he would never see again, complete with heartbroken portraits and border motifs.

He runs out of acrylics, but refuses to leave the flat to go get any more, instead choosing to lie on his bead and compose sonnets in his head.

\--

Yuri Plisetsky agrees to model the Agape silhouette. He acts all annoyed about being the poster child of unconditional love, but Victor can tell that he loves the attention.

Yuri notices the mess of art supplies and empty ramen packets everywhere, but doesn’t comment.

“Do you just want me to sit on that folding chair, then?”

Victor nods, hurriedly clearing a stack of fabric samples and to-do laundry off the ground to clear some space. He points his desk lamp at the chair, adjusting its neck to spotlight Yuri.

“Really going for that Broke Artist look, huh?” Victor doesn’t respond. “You know, if something’s bothering you, you can pick yourself up and come around by my place, right? You don’t have to drown yourself in your own self-loathing.”

Satisfied with his own speech, Yuri gives Victor a meaningful glance before posing, with all the grace of a classical ballerina in training.

After adjusting a few out of place strands of golden hair, Victor freehands it.

It comes out perfectly, with the perfect proportions of melancholy and a tinge of vulnerability amid the strength.

In all honestly, Victor really wanted to scrap the whole Eros and Agape project, if not for Yuri’s determination and the song constantly coming back to haunt his dreams.

Now for the other half of the piece: it will be a struggle to find a truly suitable Eros, especially when the best one had been in reach just beyond his fingertips.

\--

“Victor fucking Nikiforov, open the goddamn door.”

Victor firmly believes in standing your ground. He doesn’t like to be bossed around, and thinks that people who sit on the fence of social and political issues will ultimately prove unbeneficial to whatever discussion they participate in. It’s why he so valiantly defends his art. Because if he doesn’t, who will?

But whoever showed up at ten in the morning is a force of nature altogether. Normally, Victor is fine with pretending nobody’s home, but as hard as he tries, Victor can’t not bring himself to the door to see what’s up. Victor tries to be subtle as he looks through the peephole, but the stranger beats him to it, shoving a phone in front of Victor’s line of sight.

Victor blinks as a photo of his Eros model comes into focus onscreen. He nearly topples over, and his hand reaches for the doorknob before he can stop himself.

Standing there, phone hand still outstretched, is an irritated Phichit Chulanont. Talk about surprises.

“I have been trying to find you for ages now, but you’ve been leaving me unread on your phone, and you didn’t go to class for five days straight, which complicated things. Chris said you had either gone to some tropical resort or went into hiding in an alley somewhere, which didn’t help at all, and you’re not in the school directory, so I had to literally track down your dorm room by talking to absolute strangers. So.” He digs around in his messenger bag until he triumphantly holds up a colorful flyer, handing it to Victor. “To make up for all my lost time this past week, I assume I’ll be seeing you tonight at Kubo Hall.”

Victor frowns. “Is this some kind of a joke between you and… him?”

“No. He would never be able to work up the courage to invite you. This is all me.”

“So you’re making fun of me, then.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” Phichit’s voice is getting increasingly high-pitched. “You can’t just make Yuuri fall in love with you like that, be so arrogant that you won’t even listen to what his name is, and then disappear!”

“What?” Oh, dear god. “I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Victor says, finally realizing what had happened.

“No shit, Sherlock! Now, do you want to correct the mess you’ve made or not?”

\--

He does, of course. How could he not?

He cleans up after himself pretty well, combing through his hair and choosing a nice jacket to match his favorite v-neck shirt.

Walking down to the recital hall, Victor has no idea what to expect, but he had followed Phichit’s instructions carefully.

He comes in through the side door, carrying a dozen freshly-cut black and red roses, which he leaves on the chestnut bench, just as Phichit described, before heading to the recital hall.

Then, he chooses a seat in the middle of the back row and waits for the lights to dim.

Yuuri walks onstage, and Victor drops his program. He has to fight not to gasp. In a tailored navy suit, Yuuri looks like the actual embodiment of Eros. It might seem like going backwards considering the fact that Victor’s seen him before _without_ clothes, but the outfit has a quality some would call magical. It fits him perfectly, accenting the way he moves and bows.

Yuuri’s performance is altogether unreal. He captures the humanity in his music, showing off polaroid snapshots of each composer’s stories with a perfect balance of technique and emotion. His recital is not without mistakes, but the flaws add more character to his ability.

Victor can feel the pain in Yuuri’s Liebestraum, as he sinks into each note, and is carried away by the beautiful fluidity of his original untitled finale, soaring up and down the 88 keys. He makes it sound easy, but raw as an open wound, overflowing with passion from the depths of his heart. The piece sounds like a journey, constantly seeking, constantly flowing, constantly searching, unsatisfied with what is presented.

As Yuuri lands on the final note, weary, fulfilled, but still determined with a small smile on his face, Victor stands up, initiating a standing ovation. The room echoes with thunderous applause, out of respect for Yuuri’s incredible talent and effort.

Yuuri’s crying happy tears even before Phichit walks onstage with a familiar rose bouquet. Victor watches with bated breath as Phichit hands him the flowers with a mischievous smile.

At the floral shop, Victor had drawn a tiny picture in silver Sharpie, and the manager was kind enough to include it as an element in the bouquet. Now he watches as Yuuri picks it up, unfolds the heart-shaped card, and looks shocked to find the miniature anime-like portraits Victor had included: Yuuri, with Cupid’s bow and arrow, shooting an arrow at Victor’s heart.

He sees the shock and embarrassment unfold over Yuuri’s face, waits for him to look up into the crowd, where he is the only one still standing amid an audience impatient for the reception.

This time, Yuuri looks straight at Victor and doesn’t look away.

His smile is brighter than the stagelights.

\--

They talk, staying up late between their busy schedules.

Turns out Yuuri’s original piano piece was inspired by an abstract design Victor had created a few years before. It combined elements like a piano keyboard and notes and clefs to imitate a two-dimensional symphony, in a visual feat of orchestral brilliance. In the empty space, Victor had etched the tale of a mysterious dancer who stole the heart of the crown prince, only to disappear before moving onto the next kingdom.

“They said photography wasn’t allowed, so I just stared until the gallery closed, until I memorized the lines in my head,” Yuuri says with a soft smile. “I think Phichit had looked through the rest of the collection three or four times through just to wait for me… and that day, I went home, took out my pen, and started writing, just like that. I’ve never been a composer, really… You were just the best thing that ever happened to me.”

\--

Victor takes Yuuri’s fountain pen, adjusts the nib, and adds two black roses to the bottom corner of the frame. He’s not sure why he does so, but an artist doesn’t always need a reason, especially when driven by the instinct of love and life.

And, there. It’s finally completed.

But something’s off.

Victor stares at his piece, finally seeing what he had mistakenly constructed.

He gives Yuri the fiery heart of passion, and gives Yuuri the fragile heart of glass.

An ardent Agape and a vulnerable Eros. It’s a fitting paradox, considering his models. It’s perfect.

\--

From across the restaurant, Phichit puts down the binoculars and turns to Seung-gil. “You have no idea how obsessed Yuuri was. If he had enough money, I know he would’ve killed to buy a Nikiforov original on the black market.”

“You should have seen Victor as a hermit before you showed up to give him Yuuri’s concert program. He literally only crept into the kitchen for Nutella and cereal,” Seung-gil says, smirking. “But ever since they’ve met his art has become so much more openly expressive…”

“And Yuuri’s piano has ascended to a whole new level—the other day a guy from a record company even reached out to him, saying that his playing carries a certain emotional weight. You know, I really do think that this little Victuuri ship of ours found a way to make their lives into their art.”

“You know what? I think we did alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> [stickers inspired by doodlesonice!](https://doodlesonice.tumblr.com/post/157235857271/for-valentines-day-i-made-these-stickers-lmao#notes)   
> 


End file.
